Sunday, 31 July 2011

this time

this time depression
dressed in sexy knickers
so he had trouble spotting it.

when he was with her
they laughed till they cried,
then he went home
and cried some more.

he couldn’t tell her,
she might think it was
her fault.
and it wasn’t,
it was definitely not.

so he took his fight
to the canvas
pouring his resources
into his art supplies
and eating at
his parents house.

this time depression
dressed in sexy knickers
and kept him warm at night.

Saturday, 30 July 2011

travelling to noarlunga with secrets

it was a long way
on public transport
stretched with secrets.
they sailed the back of the bus,
she liked what it did to the
bottom half of her body
and he was beyond caring.

he told her where he was going
but not what was happening.
he told her he had
he needed help with.
things he did not like were
making him….what?
don’t dare tell her that.

where were the words for the
woman who rocked him to sleep
with a violent hand, who
haunted his dreams with
her foot on his throat.
it was a long way
on public transport
stretched with secrets.

Thursday, 28 July 2011

fan mail for daniel

if i painted you a picture
i'd use lots of black paint
and red, and brown
because life is shit.
i'd use a fat brush
and lots of strokes
to show i know that you are complex,
made up of many parts.

if i sang you a song
i couldn't sing in tune,
wouldn't need to,
i'd just have to yell a lot
with passion to sound like that
nihilistic shit you listen to.

i have written stories for you,
sunk low then lower to impress you
your loyalty drags us all along -
you and your crew, we rise and fall together.

you are my brother from another mother,
you are strong like ten men
and stunted as a puppy runt,
you are clever like a dictionary
and feral as a fine porn mag.

you taught me men can feel, and listen,
your happy ending gives
me the strength to go on.

the paroxysm editing team - thank god the pretty one's holding the camera

Wednesday, 27 July 2011

there are writers all over the world

there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. there are writers all over the world. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. the world is round. there are writers all over the world. writers slip sometimes. with their words with their feet with their mouths with their tongues. with drugs with booze with self abuse, in shit inside & in their heads. writers slip sometimes. there are writers all over the world.writers slip. with knives with pipes, with fixings. writers slip. with bookies with pokies with loan repayments. the world is round. sometimes writers slip. there are writers all over the world.

Tuesday, 26 July 2011


falling in love
with him and e.e
at the same time.
trouble was e.e
was the only
one cumming.

Monday, 25 July 2011

haiku 3.

on distant nightmares
the sandman changes trousers
and surfs back, dreaming.

haiku 2.

when questions are asked
the chainsaw does not know why
accidents happen.

haiku 1.

around tank blank walls
people paper poetry,
literary fightback.

Sunday, 24 July 2011

good speed son

hanging with elemental boy,
stretch till it hurts
(it always hurts but that's
his lesson to learn).
then he navigates
a different passage
wrangling the unruly stallion
into understanding.

straddled in the middle world
where black and white turn
murky grey while
gazing at the miasma
of adulthood.
he knows there are things
he doesn't want to know
but cant stop wanting them.

he teaches me
my boundaries
and inconsistencies,
reflecting me in a way that
terrifies and amazes. he
amazes me constantly
and we love
the story so far.

Saturday, 23 July 2011

suburbia 7

she has a habit of headbutting her shadow
long enough to remember the amnesia
that put her in these calipers of
self medication and despair.
because unlike the television
where incidents of tragedy lead to
true love and happily ever after,
the only road that she can see is down
and the devil has welcoming eyes.

the moments before

the darkness sets in.
underneath his skin and behind his eyes
lay the truth that no one would ever imagine.
it had clawed at him for years, but on this night, in
this absolute darkness he was
ripped from a dreadful headline -
he could no longer suppress the need. 
cranial fluids
seep from his ears and 
from his tear ducts.
he stared at himself in the puddle
watching, drip. drip. drip and disappear in the oily sludge.
like some lynch movie the fog set in
and insane confusion followed.

Thursday, 21 July 2011

suburbia 4

the man next door has a tic in his eye and a slack jaw
from his constant masturbation and chronic alcoholism'
he knows she knows it.
he pretends to be interested, hides his insecurities
with laughter and likes to scream for no reason.
he fears everything – and brings some sugar.
since anything is better than nothing
disturbing fantasies will follow her for years to come.

Monday, 11 July 2011

the storm before the calm

the thunder is coming so i hunker down to the approaching storm. thoughts trip quickly as the atmosphere thickens with the weight of nothingness and i fear i may have miscarried the lord there is so much blood and so little evidence. so you could be the best abortionist in town, but how do i tell you that your services are no longer required?

fear of exposure and unexplained metaphors. haunted by voices until last monday i nearly gave the whole game away. there is a hunger/not in my guts/but in my soul/and substance abuse/doesn't cut it anymore/and cutting it... so you could be the best psychiatrist in town but how do i tell you i want to be in the front seat when the accident happens?

so with wet expectations i unbelieve my body and focus on the moments when i am perfection in the company of others, slowly learning to seize more moments. and i will make my heart the moon, fill it with dreams of a better life and resolve to trace my pirate roots. so you could be the best meteorologist in town but how can i tell you that it's all just gypsy fortune telling?

Sunday, 10 July 2011

those moments

it's in those moments
when i'm caught
between touching you, and
not touching you
and finding out that the truth
doesn't always move
the narrative along -
that my life takes on the
orchestration of a car accident.

it's in those moments
when i keep finding the wrong
way to express myself
that i get the feeling i'm
a tourist here,
in my own town
in my own home
in my own bed.

its in those moments
when i'm pushing
myself too far, but somehow
it's never far enough,
and the burden of
carrying ugly
is just a knife slice
short of too heavy...

it's in those moments.

Thursday, 7 July 2011

three jars of chocolate sauce

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite
but i recreate my arrival using a broom, two shopping bags,
a dildo and a large akubra hat.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite
so i take down the tinsel and the streamers and
put my nakedness back in the bottom of the wardrobe and
i slip into a kind of nothingness that long ago forgot its name.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite
so i argue with myself over the pills or the blade
knowing that i'll wake up in the morning and i go to the kitchen
for a spoon to eat the three jars of chocolate sauce that
i was saving for his penis.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite
so i go outside and howl at the moon who is not listening,
and my mind boils like a kettle, and my belly aches with the
longing of the unconceived (the unasked) and i undo the hope
that this could ever end.

george clooney is not coming to visit me tonite.

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

stud boy

what are you playing at stud boy?
looking at me with those small, dark eyes
and that tall, spiky hair of yours.
just what are you getting at?

what's the story, stud boy?
standing there so slick and shiny and
spouting the anarchy that matches
the patches on your army pants.
and what are the studs
about anyway?

okay stud boy
put your ego where your
zip is, and your hand on
this stud, stud boy.

not so brave with the lights out
are you stud boy?
didn't know that your stud cuffs
could cut the skin when they're
tight around the bed post,
did you stud boy?

chin up stud boy.

chin up so I can tighten
your collar.
don't worry, it's real leather,
only the best for you, stud boy.

where did you go stud boy?
now all ive got left is
dud boy.
so long stud boy.

Tuesday, 5 July 2011


he hated generalisations.
he tried so hard to be
a good man,
a kind man,
(keep bad at bay).
all men are bastards”
she would say.
it made him want to be
an arsehole with her.

Monday, 4 July 2011

they played

they played word games
and dice games,
gambled for sex acts
and painted the fridge
in primary colours.

they shared books and beers,
laughed at toilet humour,
hung out of windows and
drank coffee by the bucket
full around the kitchen table.

they told jokes about
serial killers, made
love on the beach,
shopped at markets and
yelled abuse at television
personalities and right wing politians.

they had parties,
ate at friends houses,
kept spare change
in a jar and smoked joints
in the reeds of the cities river.

they caught trains
for no reason,
waited at staitions,
told stories of their pasts
and slowly wove their
futures together.

they had fantasies
to fulfil, but
neither if them
were working to
a timetable.

Sunday, 3 July 2011


in the early days,
the hay days,
the “hey get here and
fuck me” days
when she would
and he would
they felt indestructible
they felt teflon coated
they felt they had
climbed aboard an
invincible narrative
of eternal back rubs
and sex for no reason.
it was the stuff of soap operas
so love was muttered
under the covers then
over breakfast, and
normal was not a word
they thought about
because they were.

Friday, 1 July 2011

you're not the only icon to make this country great

bush man pushing dirty dogs to droving,

cattle on the run in a hard man's land.

red sun keeps setting, bush man keeps betting

the money that he's making will see him through the dry.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape

and threw his skinny white arse in the nearest billabong.

i think that's where i left him.

muscles meeting meltdown as his axe arcs swiftly,

trees disappearing as his hard hacks hit.

never seeing forward, life turned into floorboards,

destruction can be easy when you’re told what's right.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

catapulted his skinny white arse into some old growth forest.

i think that's where i left him.

cocky is the farmer who surveys his harvest,

tossing up his bales as the stacks rise high.

horizons never ending; but he doesn't do the mending

so the harsh brown land keeps spreading and the salt levels rise.

so i plucked the fucker from the landscape and

strapped his skinny white arse to the top of his tractor

then made crop circles till sunset in his golden fields.

i think that's where i left him.